He refers to the —a real event (though the name is fictionalized here for the story’s purpose). In 1989, an abandoned logging dam gave way during a record rainstorm, flooding the lowlands and creating the permanent, stump-littered lake that now separates Banana Point from the rest of the world. A Typical Run On a foggy Tuesday, Aris carries three passengers: a marine biologist heading to count otters, a hiker with a broken ankle who needs evacuation, and a 70-year-old resident named June returning from town with fifty pounds of chicken feed and a blood-pressure prescription.
The water taxi has no schedule. It runs on demand, by VHF radio. Residents signal by hoisting a yellow flag on their dock. Aris charges $25 per person or a dozen fresh Dungeness crabs. In winter, when the river runs high and gray, he often makes the trip for free, because “you don’t let neighbors drown in their own kitchen.” The Yellow Jacket serves as ambulance, mail boat, grocery delivery, and social worker. Last winter, Aris delivered a breech-calf goat during a gale, using the boat’s flat bow as a makeshift delivery table. He once towed a floating cabin that had broken loose in a storm, nudging it back to Banana Point like a mother whale guiding its calf. The Future Development pressures are rising. A county commissioner recently proposed a bridge—a $40 million concrete arch that would span the Drowned Forest, cutting Aris’s route in half. Residents voted it down 8 to 4. They prefer the water taxi. “A bridge brings rules, permits, and tourists with RVs,” June told the local paper. “The Yellow Jacket brings Aris. We’ll keep the boat.” Riding the Yellow Jacket If you ever find yourself at the Mora Launch Ramp on a clear morning, you might spot a flash of yellow rounding Devil’s Elbow, threading between the skeletal stumps of the Drowned Forest. Wave your arm. Captain Aris will throttle down, tilt his stained ball cap, and ask the only question that matters: banana point water taxi
The Yellow Jacket is no tourist novelty. Its flat bottom allows it to slide over submerged logs. Its jet drive (no propeller to get fouled in driftwood) can run in just six inches of water. The hull is scarred with white stripes—each one a kiss from a floating cedar snag. The journey takes exactly 17 minutes, but it feels like traveling through a lost world. Leaving Mora, Aris guns the engine past the James Island Lighthouse. Then he cuts hard to port, into a narrow channel called Devil’s Elbow . Here, the Quillayute widens into a brackish estuary known locally as the Drowned Forest. He refers to the —a real event (though